


You Should See the Other Guy

by bohemeyourself



Series: The Stupid Backstory Verse [1]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-05
Updated: 2011-08-05
Packaged: 2017-10-22 06:16:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/234790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bohemeyourself/pseuds/bohemeyourself
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur and Eames cleaning each other up after a fight. A job goes bad and Arthur just wants to go home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Should See the Other Guy

The safe house is completely off the grid, and Eames is sure they lost their tail, but he keeps his gun drawn as he and Arthur methodically check every lock, every window, drawing all the curtains and even checking under the beds and in the closets. They’re safe; he follows Arthur into the bedroom, where Arthur is undressing into a black plastic trash bag. Eames’ own clothes are ruined, and they get put in the same bag to be dealt with later.

+++

They decide to shower together, firstly because Eames is certain Arthur is concussed, and secondly because Arthur argues it would do no one any good for him to slip with his ankle and crack his skull on the tile. Normally, an act like this would be intimate, but now it just feels perfunctory. Arthur takes the time to assess the damage, decide what needs immediate attention, what can wait.

The water washes away the dirt and grime of the fight, the running. Arthur traces the lines of the tattoo on Eames’ shoulder and his eyes prickle. This is the first time he has seen him since Buenos Aires, since Arthur had run from him. Arthur had been scared, fully realizing for the first time the dangers they faced being together, being in this business.

Arthur had told himself that it was better this way, that it would hurt less if he just left. As he stands with Eames in the shower, the guilt and the fear and the hurt and the _want_ all come crashing back. _Six months._ Arthur ran for six months, not bothering to look back to see if Eames had been following. Arthur’s hand flattens against Eames’s chest, but he can’t make himself look up. He just can’t, he can’t look up knowing what he’ll find there.

They stay under the hot spray until it is only faint red water running in rivulets over the tiles.

+++

Eames dabs at Arthur’s ribs again, the knife wound still oozing blood. “This’ll need stitches.” He throws the bloodied chunk of gauze in the trash bin and digs in Arthur’s first aid bags for the suture kit.

Arthur sighs heavily, wincing when it upsets the wound. Eames just shakes his head at him and chuckles. Eames ties the last suture in Arthur’s skin and bandages it. He sits back on the small stool, letting Arthur’s arm slip from where it was resting over his shoulder.

 _The guy goes down and Eames looks to Arthur, catching sight of him just in time to see another man come up behind Arthur. Eames’ heart skips a beat; he’s too far away to do anything. The knife sinks into Arthur’s ribs and he roars. Eames pulls the gun from the waistband of the guy he just knocked out and gets both of Arthur’s assailants in the head._

Arthur catches his eye and grimaces. “Hey, let me see your ankle.”

+++

They switch places, Eames sitting on the counter, Arthur on the stool as he examines Eames’ ankle.

 _Behind him, Arthur hears the sound of Eames’ shoes slipping on the metal fire escape. He turns at Eames’ grunt. His grip on the railing is white knuckled, but he grimaces and grunts out “I’m fine, keep going.”  
_  
No severe damage, Arthur decides. He wraps the ankle and tells him he needs to ice it as soon as they’re done.

+++

  
Arthur is perched on the counter again as Eames turns his face this way and that. None of the cuts are particularly deep, and Eames is silently grateful; he would hate to have Arthur’s face scarred by his uneven, indelicate sutures. He places a butterfly bandage over a large cut on his cheek and presses and instant ice pack to it.

“Hold it there, love.” Eames murmurs, hoping it’ll keep the swelling down and Arthur can sleep comfortably.

 _Arthur was backed into a corner and Eames didn’t even bat and eye. He’d seen Arthur fight his way out of a lot of corners, in the dream world and reality. But then he caught the glint of something metallic on the guy’s hand and he was charging over there, the other men be damned.  
_  
Brass knuckles were the most unfair instrument ever invented, Eames decides as he looks over the bruises that are rapidly purpling over Arthur’s body. He reaches out a hand to skate over his ribs, searching for the words to tell Arthur, when Arthur grabs his hand to peer at his knuckles. The skin is red, raw, and split in some places.

“Shit,” Arthur curses quietly, reaching out for Eames’ other hand. “Let me see.” Eames winces as Arthur pulls his hands towards him, and for a second prays that Arthur doesn’t notice. But he does. “What?” Arthur’s looking at him critically.

“It’s nothing, just a little sore.”

“Bullshit. Let me see,” Arthur hops off the counter to walk around him.

“Alright, but please don’t-”

“Fuck, Eames!”

“-freak out.” He turns around to face Arthur, who looks very much like he can’t decide whether to be angry or hurt. He knows Arthur is thinking of the same thing he is.

 _The men had back-up. They weren’t going to be able to stay and fight it out. Eames grabs his wrist and growls “Fire escape.” They turn, just as they hear the sound of a shotgun going off. Arthur looks back at Eames, who shoves him with a harsh “Go.”  
_  
What Eames didn’t tell him was that as they were running towards the fire escape, Eames got a shoulder full of buckshot.

Arthur’s hands are steady, sure as they pick the scraps of metal out of Eames’ shoulder. The tiny shells get dropped into the sink with a soft clink sound. Eames is jacked up on painkillers and local anesthetic, but he still winces as Arthur pokes and prods at his skin, some of the wounds already starting to scab over. Eames looks in the mirror, and he can see Arthur’s face. He pulls the last piece out of Eames’ shoulder, and a tear finally breaks loose and drops down Arthur’s cheek.

But Arthur is nothing, if not neat and precise. He finishes cleaning Eames’ shoulder, bandaging what needs it, and when he’s done Eames turns and pulls Arthur to him. The tears are a steady stream, and Eames kisses them away, murmuring “It’s okay, it’ll be fine, Arthur, I promise.”

“I'm sorry,” Arthur says into the skin of Eames’ neck. “I'm sorry, so sorry, Eames.” He's chanting the words in between sobs.

“I know, I know.” Arthur clings tighter. "It's all right, darling." Eames pulls Arthur as close as he dares, without hurting him. They stand there for several long moments, until Arthur finally looks up at him. Eames' heart clenches at the look on Arthur's face, his knees going weak as Arthur sways away from him.

“Hey, bed.” Eames says, pushing Arthur away towards the bedroom. They’ve both been up for over thirty-six hours and Eames would rather not pass out on the floor of the bathroom.

They’re both curled up under the blankets, about to surrender to the kind of deep sleep only heavy amounts of narcotics can induce, when Arthur reaches out in the dark and finds Eames’ hand, lacing their fingers together under the pillows.

+++

  
The next morning, Eames gingerly hoists himself from the nest of blankets and goes in search of food. There’s no bread for toast, only non-perishables, but there is coffee and cereal and that is good enough for now. He makes a mental note to go out for something hearty and filling later. The coffeemaker chimes and Eames pours himself a cup, settling on the couch with his laptop and an icepack for his ankle.

Arthur appears in the bedroom doorway, his hair sleep mussed and bare feet on the hardwood. Eames sets the laptop on the table as Arthur pads forward and folds himself into Eames’ lap, careful not to disrupt his ankle. Arthur doesn’t say a word, just kisses him long and deep, and he tastes like morning and guilt and relief.

“Good morning to you, too.” Eames smiles when Arthur pulls away.

“Let’s go home.” Arthur drops a kiss onto his nose. “Back to London. Find legit work. Stop associating with people like McClaggan.” Arthur punctuates each word with a kiss.

“You want to go straight?” Eames asks, incredulous.

“I could never, not after you.” Arthur deadpans, sitting back. Eames erupts into laughter. “I mean it though,” Arthur says petulantly. “Let’s go home.”

Eames laughter subsides and he nods. “Alright, let’s go home.”

+++

  
Arthur’s on the phone when he gets back with lunch. He sets the bags of food in the kitchen and looks over Arthur’s shoulder where he’s scribbling notes onto a bit of scratch paper. Arthur waves him off, and so he goes back to the kitchen to unpack the soup and sandwiches he picked up from a café around the corner.

“Alright, I’ll call you when I’ve heard from Nash.” Arthur hangs up when he enters the kitchen. Eames raises an eyebrow as Arthur wordlessly sits down with him.

Arthur looks up from his soup and sighs. “That was Cobb. Cobol Engineering needs a team to track down some information from one of their competitors.”

“And Nash?” Eames asks, eyebrows shooting skywards again.

“Apparently he’s the only architect Cobb could find on such short notice.”

Eames hums in thought. They finish eating in silence. Arthur gets to work while Eames cleans up, typing away at his own laptop. It’s silent in the small flat, save for the click of the laptop keyboard.

“When do you leave?” Eames asks, already sure of the answer.

“Tonight, if I can.” Arthur answers, not looking up from the screen. “Do you want in?” Arthur asks. Eames assumes he’s booking plane tickets, and wants to know where to.

Eames considers for a moment, and then shakes his head. “I’ve got work in Mombasa, a friend needs help doing some research.” Arthur nods wordlessly and turns back to his computer. That was that, then.

+++

  
At the door, Arthur sets down his bags and buries his face in Eames’ neck. He’s dressed in an immaculate pin striped three piece suit, the image of a perfect businessman. The only imperfection is the cut on his cheek. Eames is still in sweats; his flight doesn’t leave until the morning.  
Arthur kisses him, long and deep, savoring this last moment they have together. When he pulls away, his face is serious. “I meant what I said about going home, Eames.”

“I know, love.” Eames smiles. “Soon, I promise.”

Arthur smiles then. Outside, the cab pulls up. Arthur sighs, giving Eames one last kiss before hoisting his bags and walking out the door.


End file.
